Adolf Hitler had
many sins to answer for. One of the lesser ones was destroying the marriage and
creative partnership of Thea
VON HARBOU
and Fritz Lang, who fled from Germany to
escape Nazi repression while his ex-wife stayed behind to script pro-Nazi
films. And, while some of the films he went on to make in America and elsewhere
have been praised, he never again created any films to match his amazing
achievements with von Harbou. Certainly, as I argue in her entry, von Harbou
contributed more to those films' success than is generally acknowledged, but it
might be more accurate to say that Lang's and von Harbou's disparate talents were
uniquely complementary—von Harbou's naïveté and Lang's sophistication, von Harbou's
ability to generate ideas and Lang's skills in developing them, von Harbou's
stories filled with flaws and Lang's energetic and inspired efforts to mask
them.

During the
1920s, Lang and von Harbou collaborated on five silent films that arguably launched
four different subgenres of fantastic films. The most famous of these, of
course, is Metropolis (1927), for decades the definitive futuristic
dystopia, offering a visual flair and audacity that has made it Lang's most
celebrated film and has led to regular revivals with new soundtracks. Indeed,
while its ultimately illogical story might seem a betrayal of the very
principles of science fiction, Lang compensates by creating such an imaginative
and meticulously developed future world as to provide the film with an
overpowering aura of conviction.

But I also
admire Woman in the Moon (1929), not fully appreciated, I think, because
it was once available only in a severely truncated form; viewed today, however,
it stands as the progenitor of what I termed the spacesuit film, a realistic
depiction of a journey to the Moon that, once one endures a lengthy prologue on
Earth, can still evoke awe and a genuine sense of wonder. And its thesis that
the conquest of space would be driven primarily by greed—not an interest in
exploring the unknown or attaining a military advantage—now seems prescient,
since the American government has largely turned the manned space program over
to profit-hungry entrepreneurs. His two films based on Wagner's Ring cycle—Die
Nibelungen: Siegfried (1924) and Die Nibelungen: Kriemhild's Revenge (1924)—are
best known today for the first film's magnificent dragon, often observed
in isolated clips, but they can be viewed as anticipations of the films now
regarded as heroic fantasy, later perfected by Ray
HARRYHAUSEN
and his successors. And while their
imagined scientific innovations are modest, Lang's Mabuse films—Dr.
Mabuse: The Gambler (1922) and The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (1933)—now
look like early technothrillers, with a brilliant, manipulative villain who
would fit perfectly well into a James Bond film.

While a
temporary resident of France, Lang directed a sentimental fantasy, Lilliom
(1934), but when he then went to work for American
studios, it appears that he was content to direct whatever films he was
assigned to direct, all of them realistic dramas, and while they are always
competent and occasionally inspired, it is difficult to discern any pattern of
personal vision in them. It is telling that, during this period, he was
credited only twice as a screenwriter, probably hesitant to rely upon his
imperfect English. Only late in his career, first sojourning in India and then
returning to Germany, did he once again seem to making the movies that he chose
to make. As if paying tribute to his now-deceased ex-wife and former muse, he
adapted one of von Harbou's novels as two colorful adventure films set in India—Tiger
of Bengal (1958) and The Indian Tomb (1959)—and he returned one
more time to the memorable character they created, Dr. Mabuse, in the enjoyable
thriller The 1,000 Eyes of Dr. Mabuse (1960). At the age of seventy, he
then retired, perhaps both proud and chagrined that his greatest achievements
occurred during his first decade as a film director.